Shirtless
by SlvrSoleAlchmst1
Summary: [Hinted shounen ai: Dearka x Yzak] He usually made sure he never failed, but sometimes... Sometimes certain blonde haired idiots got in his way.
1. Dearka Gets Blamed

_A/N: An attempt at humor, and maybe it borders on crack-ish. Not my best work, because I am not funny. But I took a shot, so let me know whether I hit the target._

"Damn it," Yzak cursed under his breath. He didn't have the energy to let his foot loose on the table leg. He didn't have the patience to wait for a human target to wander in and volunteer for a verbal lashing. The back of his eyes throbbed. His knees were weak. He didn't have time to take a hot shower. He couldn't even muster the liveliness to curse again. No, Yzak Joule was far too tired for any of those things.

He shouldn't have collapsed onto his bed and started _thinking_, for the love of ZAFT. He ought to be _acting_, damn it – because taking action was what Yzak Joule was good at.

Yzak closed his eyes and pressed his fingers over his lids until he saw colors and shapes forming in his vision. The pressure felt good, and it drew his mind away from his responsibilities and his failures. _Especially_ his failures. He usually made sure he never failed, but sometimes… Sometimes certain blonde haired idiots got in his way, and not even weeks of punishing himself could make up for it.

Right on cue, Dearka Elsman located him.

"Didn't know you were in here," the blonde said, tossing a casual glance at the silver-haired male when he burst through the door. "The Commander was looking for you."

"Damn the Commander to hell," Yzak responded, fingers still glued to his eyelids. He heard a snort, and in a flash he'd reopened his eyes and smothered Dearka with a murderous glare.

"Don't give me that look, Yzak," the blonde said, reading the pale youth without even trying. "There's no way you can pin this one on me too."

"Yes there is." And something inside Yzak snapped. The energy that had fled him earlier returned. It flared up in his icy eyes, it balled his hands into fists and curled his lips in a silent snarl. It made his headache worse, but he ignored it.

Dearka took a conscious step back. "Y-Yzak…"

"Idiot," the silver head shouted, "The only reason I missed the target was because of you, and you know it!"

The blonde lifted his palms in a sign of peace and spoke slowly. "You missed and _hit a crewmember_, Yzak."

"He wasn't hurt! It grazed his arm!" God damn it, was it _his_ fault they'd gone out into space after the legged ship? Was it _his_ fault that they'd had to do target training inside the cramped bowels of the Vesalius, where stray bullets could hit crewmembers? Yzak seethed and Dearka raised an eyebrow.

"Tell me again how this is my fault?" The blonde seemed to consider. "Wait – did you even tell me in the first place?"

Yzak Joule did not answer. He fought the blush that threatened his cheeks with every ounce of strength he had.

Dearka was still talking. "Come to think of it, all I can remember is you muttering something and storming out. Don't you usually make sure I know how much of an idiotic mistake I made before you blatantly lay blame on me?"

Yzak bit hard on his tongue. That grin was meant to bait him. That tone was supposed to rile him up.

"It must be something you don't wanna talk about, since you're willing to give up a chance at belittling me."

Yzak flinched inwardly. He fixed the blonde with a passive glare. "Shut up, Dearka."

"Tell me what I did."

"No."

"It must be good. I wanna hear it."

"No."

Dearka's grin widened. "Why'd you choke and miss the target?" he tried again.

"I told you to shut up."

"You're blushing."

"I'm going to rip your lungs out, Elsman."

The blonde clamped his mouth shut, but the smirk didn't leave his features. He spun on his heel and made for the door. Yzak watched him place a hand on the doorknob. Dearka was halfway out when he turned back and winked.

"You know, if you don't correct my mistakes, I run the risk of making them over again."

"ARRGH!"

Yzak tore at his fine silver hair. Dearka had beaten him. The blonde knew it, and he stepped calmly back inside and shut the door.

"Get over here, you bastard," the pale boy demanded. Dearka came. Yzak glanced over his teammate's shoulder to be sure the door was tightly closed before he dared reveal the weakness that had plagued him since the incident. Then he seized Dearka's collar.

"I'm waiting," grinned the source of all his agony as he dismissed the death hold Yzak had on his clothing. "You missed because _why_?"

And Yzak Joule decided that he couldn't take the mocking glint in those eyes. The blonde already knew, and it was clear he found it quite amusing.

Yzak shoved past Dearka in a rage and made for the exit, but not before delivering the last word with all the venom he could manage.

"Why?" he echoed furiously. "Because you decided halfway through target practice that you were going to train shirtless!"

Dearka's hysterical laughter followed him out the door.

_A/N: A n y w a y ... TODAY IS LACUS CLYNE'S BIRTHDAY! (February 5th) She's my favorite female character, and I'd love to write her a tribute, but there were no hopping plot bunnies I could harvest for a fanfic stew. Apologies. I've celebrated the pink princess here, at least. I may lure in an idea yet, though. Where are those carrots..._


	2. WHY Dearka Got Himself Blamed

_A/N: I added to this piece in honor of March 29th, Dearka's birthday. It's about 30 percent crackish OOCness, and for that I apologize. Happy reading! (And Happy Birthday, Dearka!)_

Yzak squinted one eye over the barrel of his gun and took careful aim. Thirty meters away, nestled between a large storage crate and a snaking ceiling pipe crouched the practice target. His finger slipped into position over the trigger and he took a step back for good measure. If he missed and hit anything other than that target, the bullets would ricochet and probably come back at him in such an unfitting setting. Not that he would miss.

As he moved his foot, he felt the chink of something metal against his boot. The silver haired youth scowled and kicked aside a loose bolt. It rolled over the concrete and bumped to a stop at the foot of a pile of scrap metal. Yzak Joule growled his frustration. The bowels of the Vesalius were no place to hold mandatory target training! He resisted the urge to mutter a curse. If they hadn't had to follow the legged ship into space, he'd be training on deck.

He took aim again. A crewmember wandered into his line of sight.

"Arrgh! Would you _move._ Do you want me to _shoot _you, you imbecile?" He didn't bother to wait for a reply. This was ridiculous. And where was—

The side door flew open with a bang, and in sauntered Dearka Elsman.

"You're late," Yzak snarled, whirling away and lifting his weapon again. He squeezed the trigger. The bullet slammed into the center of the target.

Dearka whistled, impressed. "You must be in a foul mood."

Yzak snorted. "Bastard. I don't know what you're talking about."

"You only shoot like _that_ when you're mad at me for something."

The silver head gritted his teeth. "Like _what_, Elsman?" Two seconds in and the blonde was already giving him a headache.

Dearka grinned and launched into a mock-serious explanation. "When you're calm, you're hard to beat because you never miss. You take your time lining up your shots. When you're angry, you can't focus enough to bother aiming at all. When you're angry at _me_, you pull off what seems like a reckless shot and yet you hit dead center." The blonde's grin expanded. "Kind of like you mean to say, 'Fuck you, Dearka,' but you're making sure I know I haven't ruined your concentration no matter how I've tried to bait you."

Yzak had been lining up a shot, only half listening to the low drawl of Dearka's voice. The silver head released another bullet. When it hit the middle of the target, he turned to the blonde with a superior smirk.

"You were saying?"

The blonde shrugged, and Yzak calmly reloaded. He knew the Buster pilot was trying to rile him. He'd be damned if he let it work.

Dearka just donned his protective goggles and chuckled. "So I'm right. That's all I wanted to know."

Yzak rolled his eyes. Then Dearka lifted a hand to his throat and undid the clasp on his crimson uniform. The silver haired youth watched in distaste as his teammate discarded it on top of a stray barrel and returned to his position.

"So much for protocol, Elsman," Yzak hissed sarcastically, tossing his head to coax the silvery strands away from his eyes.

Dearka let a smile tug at the corners of his lips, as he rolled his shoulders experimentally in the T-shirt he'd worn underneath. "The uniform's too restricting when I'm trying to concentrate."

"I'm sure that the last thing you'll be thinking about in ground battles under gunfire is how uncomfortable your uniform is, Elsman."

Yzak observed the blonde from the corner of his eye. Dearka raised his arms in front of him and tilted his head in one fluid motion, with an ease and coolness that he found to be impressive. He said nothing, and Dearka allowed three shots to fly before he paused to assess his handiwork. Three bullets in a cluster just outside the middle circle.

"Damn it."

"Take your time with it," Yzak ordered. "This is just training. You have _time_ to line up a shot carefully and get used to it. Overdoing it will ruin your aim."

Dearka let his arm drop and hid his surprise with a condescending quirk of his mouth. "I didn't think you were the type to take training so lightly, Joule."

The remark left Yzak seething. "That's not what I'm doing, idiot!" he argued. "All I'm saying is that if you practice slowly and let it sink in, it'll come to you quicker once your instinct takes over in actual battle. Get a grip, Elsman."

The blonde allowed a cool smile to sweep over his features; he brushed past Yzak and awarded him a deliberate clap on the back. "I'll keep that in mind." His hand lingered a bit longer than necessary at the nape of Yzak's neck. Then he kept walking until he reached the place where he'd tossed his jacket.

Seconds later, he'd returned with a pair of standard earmuffs and set to work at Yzak's side.

The two of them practiced steadily. Yzak found the unrelenting echo of gunfire soothed his nerves, and he blocked out all thoughts except those immediately needed to maintain his near-flawless record — the feel of the trigger beneath his slim finger, the vibrations that tore up his arm when the hammer released and the handgun recoiled. As he focused, he increased his pace until his speed multiplied and his head hurt from the noise. He was growing warm from exertion, but he dared not pause. Training was important to him. They were soldiers. Effective shooting could save their lives.

He noticed the gap in the routine they had started the moment Dearka shifted beside him. The blonde placed his weapon on the ground. At first, Yzak blinked and chose to ignore his teammate's halt of activity. But Dearka's hands went to the edges of his T-shirt, and then he was pulling the offending article over his head with careless abandon.

Yzak snapped his eyes back to the front. Still, he caught Dearka's movements in his peripheral vision, and he cursed his excellent Coordinator sight as every detail of the body next to him became sharper in his distraction. The shirt peeled away inch by painful inch, revealing the ripples of Dearka's finely chiseled abdomen. Yzak shifted involuntarily and squeezed the trigger harder than he'd meant to.

All that resulted was a dry click.

Dearka paused midway through his motion. "You need to reload, Yzak." Then he frowned.

The silver-haired youth averted his gaze, berating himself for his own foolishness as he did so. "I know that, idiot." He slammed the new cartridge into his handgun. He took a deep breath and lined up his shot.

Dearka resumed the process of shedding his shirt as if nothing had occurred. He lifted it over his head with a sluggish yawn, combing a hand through his flaxen locks when the material ruffled the lazy strands. He rolled his shoulders. Yzak's throat constricted as he witnessed smooth, tanned skin gleam where the toned muscles flexed.

The blonde was perfect. Every inch of that bare torso was _perfect_. Yzak felt his insides curl and his face grow warm. He swallowed. He had to maintain his detached state of calm. Curse that flawlessly sculpted idiot and that enticing, alluring form. This was _target practice_, damn it. But he felt his body giving in to desire. He wanted to run his fingers over those fine lines when the other male moved. Dearka took aim and tensed his entire upper body; each faultless curve made itself known. Yzak wanted those strong arms wrapped around his waist. He wanted that hardened chest pressed against him, wanted to feel the strength of that body commanding him and overpowering him.

The Buster pilot began firing a round. His torso rippled with the activity. Yzak closed his eyes. He tried to concentrate on the cold feeling of the handgun in his grasp. Dearka finished his round, and the chamber went silent. Yzak's lids snapped open when he felt he could take aim.

Dearka stretched casually.

Yzak's finger slipped. The gun exploded with a bang, and the cries of the crewmembers echoed wildly through the enclosed space.

The silver head's jaw nearly dropped when he noted the extent of the disaster his weakness had caused.

"Yzak! You misfired!"

The pale youth thought he was going to choke. "I-I can see that, dolt!" One of the crewmen was bleeding from a flesh wound on his upper arm. "He shouldn't have been standing there. Those bastards! I told them to get out of the way."

Dearka appeared stricken. "They weren't anywhere near the target!"

Yzak whirled on him. The blonde was glancing between the injured crewmember and his teammate with disbelief.

"Arrgh, Elsman!" Yzak let his fingers curl into fists. "Don't look at me like that. It's your fault anyway!" And off he stormed after a hollered apology to the men that huddled around their bleeding fellow workman.

That, Yzak Joule decided, was the last time he would dare carry out target training in the same vicinity as one very attractive Dearka Elsman.


End file.
